


So Foul and Fair a Day

by Violsva



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Blackmail, Canon-Typical Violent Backstories, Clint Spends Most of This Fic in Kind of a Lot of Pain, Concussions, Disabled Character, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mandatory Fun Day, Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov Is Also Fucking Terrifying, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Pre-Slash, References to Hunting Animals for Food, References to Torture, Secrets, Spies, alternate universe - Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-05
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:20:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21675142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violsva/pseuds/Violsva
Summary: Badly injured on a mission, Clint is rescued by the local laird. But other people are looking for him, and Clint isn’t the only one with secrets.
Relationships: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov, Future James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 14
Kudos: 95
Collections: Mandatory Fun Day





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [*shows up two months late with pre-slash*](https://violsva.dreamwidth.org/121790.html)
> 
> This is for [this](https://mandatoryfunday.tumblr.com/post/187896981696/okay-winterhawklings-this-week-lets-think-bucky) [Mandatory Fun Day](https://mandatoryfunday.tumblr.com/) prompt from back in September.

Clint lay in pain, not knowing how long he lay there. The light changed around him, the world darkening sometimes slowly and sometimes suddenly. Cold crept into his limbs from the ground. When sound burst across his consciousness he could not have said where it came from, and it took him long seconds before he realized it was made by human voices and attempted to sit up.

“Help,” he groaned, and the voices grew louder. It took another minute before he realized that the reason he couldn’t understand them was that they were speaking Gaelic, which allowed him to piece together what he knew of the language.

“An Englishman,” someone said—Clint knew the Gaelic for that well enough.

“Be you living?”

That was English, and Clint struggled to look like he was as he said, “Yeah.”

“An English _archer_ ,” came a voice to his left, where he’d dropped the pieces of his poor broken bow. Some of the voices around him seemed displeased by that, and why wouldn’t they be? Clint had killed enough Scotsmen in his time, and these days probably deserved their disgust even more.

“Might as well leave him where he is, he’ll be dead soon enough,” someone said in Gaelic, or words to that effect, and Clint tried to look like he didn’t understand them. Tried to look like whoever it was wasn’t probably right.

“None of that!” This was a new voice, commanding. “No injured man on my lands shall be left without aid. We have enough horses; we’ll take him back to Grant Castle, and give him all the help we can. When he is well he can account for himself. Besides, if he is an archer the English might—” Clint’s Gaelic wasn’t good enough to get the rest.

“You heard the Laird,” said another new voice. “You two, rig up a—” The Gaelic became too complex for Clint to follow, and voices overlapped as the people around him moved, and then someone jostled his head and everything dissolved into timeless agony again, and then soon darkness.

*

When Clint woke next it was again to the sound of voices, but now he was warm and comfortable. He suspected moving would only bring back the pain, so he stayed still, watching the warm red glow behind his eyelids and trying to make out the Gaelic words.

“He’s half dead, Bucky, you don’t need to guard him.” That was the leader from before, his voice clear and understandable even in Gaelic.

“I’m not guarding him.”

“You sure seem to find a lot of time to watch him, then.”

“You shut your mouth, Steve.” It wasn’t angry, though, but friendly. Then, “He is English, though.”

“So’s Peggy.”

“Yeah, I know. Everyone knows.” A pause. “I’m not guarding us _from_ him. But...”

“Has anyone tried to hurt him?”

“Let’s just say I’m making sure they won’t.”

“Damn.”

“No one likes the English much, Steve, you know that. And with reason.”

“Bucky—”

“Don’t. I’m saying, you need to look to your men’s loyalty. And maybe have Peggy spar with them again.”

“I will. Thank you.”

Footsteps, a door closed, and a shadow fell across Clint’s face. A hand passed gently over his forehead.

“How much of that did you hear?”

Clint had thought he had good control over his expression, but at the English question he opened his eyes in surprise.

The man leaning over him—Bucky, according to his friend—was gorgeous. Clint shoved the thought aside and focused on the important things—muscular, non-threatening expression, sheathed sword at his hip, left arm hidden behind his draped plaid, or possibly missing.

Now that Bucky definitely knew he was awake, Clint opened his mouth to say something like, “I don’t know Gaelic,” and instead gasped, “Water?”

“Can you sit up?”

Clint tried, and his head immediately throbbed with agony. He gritted his teeth and shoved himself up, and Bucky one-handedly arranged the pillows to better support him. Leaning back on them made his head settle down a little. Bucky held a cup of water to his lips.

Clint took the few sips that Bucky allowed him, then said, “I can drink by myself.”

Bucky took the cup away and held out another. “Have as much of that as you like,” he said. Clint did, and then almost spat it out again.

“What is that?”

“Willow bark tea. For your head.”

“Ugh.” Clint finished the cup, though, and Bucky took it from him.

“Now,” he said. “How much did you hear?”

“I don’t know any Gaelic.”

“Bullshit.”

Clint sighed. He had, maybe, grimaced a little when he realized that there were men around here who wouldn’t mind killing him while he was flat on his back and unable to do anything about it. “A little,” he said. “So why do you care if I live or die?” Despite his careful touch, Bucky didn’t look much like a doctor.

“It’d upset his Lairdship,” Bucky said calmly. Honour of a host, right. “And I’m wondering about you.”

“Wondering about what?”

“What’s your name?” Bucky smiled, raising his eyebrows a little, and it was not fair for a man to be that attractive. Clint had more important things to think about.

Clint couldn’t remember if he’d been using an alias. Fuck it. “Clint. And yours?”

“Bucky. Or James, if you like, but nigh half the men in this castle are called James, so no good asking after me by that.” He sounded simply friendly now, unlike when he was demanding what Clint knew, and Clint wasn’t sure if he was doing it to deliberately throw him off his game. But he’d been gentle with the pillows, and maybe he was a doctor. Clint’s head hurt.

More important things. Right.

“Where am I?”

“Castle Grant. And I’d like to know, now, what an English archer was doing lying off the road a good hundred miles north of Edinburgh.” He’d clearly been making an effort to look non-threatening before, because now his face fell into grim lines that fit it much better.

“I honestly don’t know,” Clint said. “I remember bandits attacking me, but—”

“And why were you here to be attacked by bandits in the first place?”

“That’s what I don’t remember.” Clint looked frustrated, which would sell it better than trying to look earnest, and was easier at the moment anyway. “My things—did they take all I owned?”

“Everything down to your shoes. All we found near you was a broken bow.”

“Christ,” Clint muttered. The part about the bandits was true—they’d taken him by surprise, which before then he wouldn’t have thought was possible, and knocked him off his horse. Hopefully they wouldn’t be able to make head or tail of the coded tallies he’d had in his pack.

Because the rest of it wasn’t true at all. He knew why he was here in Scotland, and so he knew he couldn’t tell Bucky or anyone else the real reason. Unfortunately, he couldn’t remember the lie he’d been using, and his head hurt too much to come up with another one.

“The bow was yours?” Bucky asked it as if he knew enough about bows to have guessed, and only wanted confirmation, so Clint nodded. Then he regretted it and put a hand to his head.

“I really don’t know why I’m here, though,” Clint said, once he was done gritting his teeth. “I don’t think I know anyone in Scotland.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. “But you know Gaelic,” he said. “Seems you must know Scotland pretty well.”

“I’m from Cumberland,” Clint said—anyone could have guessed that from his accent. “And yes, I won’t lie to you, I was a soldier, and when I was younger there was some border raiding. Both ways. But I’m not anymore, and that was years ago.”

Clint thought he at least managed to stay consistent through more questions. His head was throbbing badly, and though he was trying to stay alert enough to keep his secrets—and the Shield of the Realm’s secrets—his eyelids felt heavy. At last Bucky shook his head.

“You’re exhausted,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“Go to sleep. Rest. Maybe it’ll come back.”

“ _Thank_ you.” Bucky might have given him an apologetic look, but Clint was already drifting off.


	2. Chapter 2

Two days later, Clint was able to stay awake for hours at a time, and he’d met a few more of Castle Grant’s inhabitants.

His doctor was not Bucky, but a soft-spoken retiring man named Bruce. There were a few maids helping him, susceptible to flattery but not talkative. Clint wasn’t sure how many questions would be too many, so he tried not to pry. No one had told him to spy on Laird Grant, yet.

Laird Grant was very young for his position, though he’d apparently held it for over a decade. His wife was an Englishwoman, not very nurturing—she’d only been in Clint’s room to question him—but terrifyingly smart. Laird Grant was clearly a fine leader, but Clint was pretty sure the castle would have fallen apart by now if it wasn’t for her and Bucky.

And Bucky. Bucky was the quartermaster, or something like it. Bucky was both protective of Clint and fiercely suspicious of him, and around far too often for Clint’s comfort. He was indeed missing his entire left arm. Clint was pretty sure he didn’t want to know how it had happened.

Clint had discovered when he first tried to get out of bed that he’d done something unfortunate to his knee as well as having the lingering dizziness from his head wound. But he was able to walk short distances now, with a cane, and he’d been invited to take meals with the rest of the castle. However, to do that he had to figure out Scottish clothing. Bucky helped him, while Clint stood there in his shirt and try to pay attention to what Bucky was doing instead of where his hand was.

He managed not to embarrass himself, though he wouldn’t bet on his ability to duplicate the pleats, and Bucky helped him downstairs. Clint both wanted to lean on him a lot more than he needed, and wanted to act like he was perfectly fine. It averaged out with him maybe accepting a bit more help than he usually would.

The castle had a spiral staircase in the centre, and it wasn’t until they were very near the ground that Clint could see around the curve into the main hall, where Laird and Lady Grant were talking to a beautiful red-haired woman. Clint tripped over his own feet and caught himself just in time.

“Are you all right? Dizzy again?”

“No, I’m fine.” Clint tried to look anywhere but at Natasha.

“You know her?” Bucky was too observant for his own good. Luckily there were a lot of reasons for a man to be startled upon seeing Natasha.

“No, but I’d sure like to,” Clint said. “Do _you_ know her?”

And then Natasha saw him and her face opened up with joy, and damn, he’d picked the wrong choice for whatever her story was.

“Beloved!” she cried, gathering up her skirts and running to the foot of the stairs. Clint did a slightly overdramatic double take for Bucky’s sake, and she threw herself up the few remaining steps and embraced him.

“Madame,” he said, “do I—are you—”

“My dearest, do you not remember me?” Natasha asked, pulling back and looking sadly confused. “Your Nan?”

“My love,” Clint gasped, wrapping his arms around her. Hopefully Natasha had a story to explain his presence here. “I have been injured—my mind has been all mixed up—” He pressed his face against her neck and whispered, “Clint,” so she’d know he was using his own name.

“This is your husband then?” asked Laird Grant, smiling.

“Aye. He must have been attacked on the way back home, but now that I have found him we can go back to my cousin’s croft. It’s only a couple days of travel, and he will host us while Clint recovers. I thank you for your hospitality—”

“But you must stay,” said Lady Grant. “You have come so far, you must be exhausted. And you are in little shape to travel. We could not turn you out now.”

“Oh—” Natasha started, but Laird Grant agreed, and even Tasha’s skills couldn’t get them out of agreeing to stay another night.

“But I must talk with my husband, if he has been so injured,” she said affectingly, and they were taken to a private room, although Clint didn’t like the looks Bucky and Lady Grant exchanged as they offered it.

When they were probably alone Clint slumped onto a chair and gestured at the tapestries. Natasha checked behind them, gave the doors an assessing look, and said, “We’re good.”

“For now.” Clint rubbed his forehead. “Apparently half this castle hates the English—fair enough—and is hoping I’ll take a bad turn again. I really did hit my head, Tasha. I can’t remember my cover story. And the bandits took my information. Pierce is going to be pissed.”

“So there _were_ bandits.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how they snuck up on me.”

“I might,” Natasha said. “Clint, your brother is dead.”

“ _Barney_?” Clint asked, as if he had any other brothers. “But I did everything Pierce wanted—”

“It wasn’t him. Barney got into a bar fight, with people with no connection to Pierce at all—I checked. I’m sorry.”

“Oh.” Clint tried to understand it. Barney—he’d spent all of his life focused on Barney, one way or another, and now—

“But I think Shield is trying to kill you,” Natasha finished. “I think Pierce sent the bandits.”

Clint blinked at her. “Because he doesn’t have a hold on me anymore.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck.” It made sense—Clint knew enough about Pierce to get him in serious trouble, and for that matter Clint was good enough, and knew enough people by now, that if he wanted Pierce dead he could get it done. He’d certainly dreamed about it.

But all of this together was too much for his recently bashed-in brain. Clint slumped forward and put his head in his hands. “I need a drink.” They’d have whisky here. He could sweet-talk Bucky or someone into getting him some. Nat definitely could. It would be medicinal.

“Not if you’re still dizzy without it,” she said. Clint groaned.

Then he looked up again. “But what are _you_ doing here?” he asked. “Pierce still has whatever he has on you—”

“No,” Nat said. “I’m free now too.”

“Oh. Can you tell me what it was now, then?”

Nat sighed and shook her head, the way she always did when he asked. Oh well. Clint probably didn’t really want to know.

“How are these people?” Nat asked.

“Decent,” Clint said. “I mean, the ones who will talk to me at all, anyway. By supper you’ll probably know more about them than I do.” He rubbed his head again.

“You need to lie down.”

“No, I’m fine,” Clint said, but Nat was already holding out her arms to help him up, so he went along with it.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky—who had been worryingly close when they left the room—led Nat and Clint up to the chamber Clint had been sleeping in, in his courteous and friendly guise now.

“What was your news, if you don’t mind?” he asked Natasha as they entered the bedroom.

“My wife has told me my brother is dead,” Clint said—it would be a decent explanation for how dazed and overset he felt. He didn’t need to explain the rest of it.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky said, his face breaking its grimness to show honest sympathy that made Clint deeply uncomfortable. Because there was grief mixed up with the rest of what was inside him, but also relief, and mostly confusion. Barney was his brother, but he hadn’t wholly liked him since they were kids—and then Pierce’s machinations, while they weren’t actually Barney’s fault, had added resentment to the mix. And now Barney’s death meant that he was no longer under Pierce’s control, would no longer have to spy for him—was no longer a secret threat to these people. Huh.

And also was maybe in danger from the Shield of the Realm himself, now. Which might put some of these people in danger too. This was far too much for him to think about. He rubbed his head.

“You should sleep more.” Both Nat and Bucky said it, nearly as one. Bucky looked awkward and stepped back to the door.

“There is a bell before dinner, mistress,” he said. “You can’t miss it. You may eat in the hall with us, or bring a meal up to your husband; if you don’t we’ll send one up. If you need anything, ask. Will this room do for you?”

“Of course,” Natasha said, smiling. “Thank you for your hospitality.” Bucky nodded and left.

After a moment Natasha walked lightly around the room, looking for peepholes. She spent a while at the door before coming back to Clint’s bedside.

“I think he’s just outside,” she said quietly. “It’s kind of sweet.”

“He doesn’t trust me,” Clint corrected her. She hummed noncommittally.

“I don’t think he trusts anyone when the safety of this castle is in question. But he could come around to trusting you, I think.”

Clint had no idea what she meant—they weren’t going to be staying any longer than it took for him to recover enough to ride again. When he said as much, Natasha sighed.

“This may be the safest place for you right now,” she said. “Pierce’s men are good, you know they are.”

“Doesn’t matter how safe it is if Laird Grant won’t let me stay,” Clint pointed out. “Can you keep an ear out for any word of Shield, and where we can go to avoid them?”

“I’ll try to find out what news from England I can,” Nat said. “There won’t have been time for any that I don’t know to reach here yet, though. Now go to sleep.”

Clint nodded and stopped fighting his exhaustion.

*

Clint was not capable of just lying in bed and resting for days, though. The next day, since Bruce had insisted he still shouldn’t travel and even Natasha had looked doubtful, Clint got up, grabbed the cane Bruce had left him, and went to see if anyone had a spare bow he could borrow. Natasha was making friends with Lady Grant, so she wasn’t around to stop him.

He’d figured that Bucky couldn’t possibly spend _all_ his time waiting just outside Clint’s door, and he was mostly right. Bucky was nowhere in sight when Clint left, but he ran into him halfway down the stairs. Bucky raised his eyebrows and gave Clint’s knee a meaningful look. Hell. Well, Bucky would definitely know where Clint could get his hands on something to shoot, and at least some of the time he acted a lot friendlier to Clint than most of the castle did.

“I can’t just lie in bed all day,” Clint explained. “Would there be a bow around I can practise with?”

Bucky frowned a little, but said, “I’ll take you to the range.”

He left Clint in the range while he went to the weapons storeroom. The range was decent; a few of the archers practicing gave Clint mistrustful looks, but he ignored them and went to the lane where he could stand the furthest back. He found a stool he could rest his bad leg on and centred it there. After so long indoors, and with his head injury, even the dim sunlight that filtered through the clouds was enough to make Clint’s eyes ache, but he tried to ignore it—he needed to get used to it again anyway.

“Will this do?” Bucky asked, coming back with a bow. Not a longbow, but Clint could shoot pretty much anything, and he hadn’t used a longbow in a while anyway. You couldn’t shoot one from horseback.

Clint checked it over—not bad, though it couldn’t be one of their best—and then strung it. It was much lighter than his usual, but the draw length was right. “It’ll do,” he said, and Bucky handed him a quiver and then stepped back to lean against the wall and watch.

Fine. Clint turned to the target and shot.

It wasn’t anything like a challenge, but it would keep his strength in until he could get a bow of his own. He didn’t show off—didn’t draw lines on the target like he could have, or shoot so many into the very centre of the bullseye that they’d splinter each other. He wanted to—he could feel people watching him, and it reminded him of the tourneys of his youth. And he knew Bucky was watching him specifically, and he really wanted to impress Bucky for no good reason. But he didn’t want to draw attention, and in a place this size any tales would get back to Natasha by dinnertime, and then she’d have something to say about it.

Instead he amused himself by shooting directly into the arrow-holes already in the painted target, which no one else was likely to notice. When he’d emptied the quiver Bucky called him back from going to fetch the arrows.

“Rest your leg, I’ll get them.” He took Clint’s quiver from him and walked down the lane.

He didn’t look at Clint even when he brought the full quiver back, which was odd. Clint said, “I’ll shoot another round, if you don’t mind.” Bucky nodded and leaned against the wall again.

After a dozen arrows Clint turned his head quickly, and saw Bucky staring at him with a terribly longing expression. It disappeared in a second, but it left Clint off-balance. He couldn’t believe that it had anything to do with him, so what was it?

The archery, maybe. Bucky couldn’t shoot, now, but perhaps he had before his injury. Clint imagined what losing that would be like for a second and then stopped himself. He knew it was always a possibility, that his arms or his eyes would give out on him, but thinking on it would drive him mad.

Clint wondered if shooting was in fact lost to Bucky. Could he use a crossbow? Loading it would be difficult...

Even with the stool, Clint’s leg was protesting, and it was becoming impossible to ignore his headache. He got about halfway through the rest of the quiver and lowered his bow. “I’d better rest,” he said reluctantly.

“I was going to say,” Bucky said, going down the range for the arrows again.

Clint wanted to ask if he’d been an archer before his injury, and if he’d tried any shooting since. He wanted to ask whether they had much need of archers here, how Laird Grant’s relations were with his neighbours and how much hunting they did. He wanted to talk about _something_ , to distract from the pain.

But Bucky told him to stay at the range while he returned the bow to storage, and it was clear he still didn’t trust Clint even to know where they kept their weapons. So Clint just kept his mouth shut entirely as his knee throbbed. Natasha would be proud of him. He limped back upstairs, ignoring Bucky’s hovering. Nat wasn’t back yet. Probably she was finding things out much more easily and subtly than he would.


	4. Chapter 4

As it turned out, they didn’t have to be subtle at all. When Clint was more or less able to stay awake and aware all day and they were planning to leave the next morning, a messenger arrived just before dinner. Laird Grant seemed to recognize the man.

“You come early,” he said. They were at dinner, Clint and Natasha sitting at his Lairdship’s table, but apparently this messenger was important enough to interrupt.

“I have only one piece of news,” he said, “but Pinkerton said you would want to hear it immediately. Alexander Pierce is dead—”

“Oh thank god,” Clint said, and then realized that everyone was turning to look at him. “Um.”

“How do _you_ know him?” Bucky asked. Shit.

As Clint thought quickly, Natasha said, “He was using us.”

Everyone—including Clint, who was wondering if she’d gone mad—stared at her. “I have no cousin nearby,” she said. “We are not married. We were spies for the Shield of the Realm.” Hands went for their swords, but she was already continuing, “Not by choice. Alexander Pierce found those we love and put them in his power, and used that hold to force us to work for him. I came here searching for Clint, whom we had not had word of since before his injury.” There hadn’t been time, Clint thought, but maybe they wouldn’t notice.

Definitely they all seemed too surprised to worry about the details.

Laird Grant stood up, raising a hand, and the room quieted. “Why tell us now?” he asked Natasha. “You might have left without a word.”

“Because I wish to beg sanctuary and protection,” she said. “Pierce’s loyal men will be searching for all who might speak ill of him or betray them, now that they are free of his shadow. I petition you for safety.”

Laird Grant muttered some profanity. “We will discuss this in private,” he said. “Robert, how did Pierce die?”

“A kind of dysentery, my Laird, with an excess of bile and bleeding.”

“Slowly, then,” said Laird Grant, with a relish Clint would not have expected of him. “Thank you. Dine here, and rest before your return. Now then,” Laird Grant turned, barely beckoning. He and his Lady went through a door, and Clint and Natasha followed, Bucky glowering behind them.

Laird Grant took them to a thick-walled chamber, where he and Lady Grant and Bucky sat and left Clint and Natasha to stand before them. Clint shifted all his weight to his uninjured leg—he didn’t think this would be over quickly.

“You spied on us, for England, in the service of a man of no honour and less virtue,” Laird Grant began. Clint had seen a few men when they were as angry as Laird Grant seemed now, but none of them had scared him nearly as much—or, none he’d met as an adult. Laird Grant was not shouting, not red in the face or likely to be violent. He was very calm, but the air almost shimmered around him. Clint hoped one of the others would talk him down.

Her Ladyship’s expression was unreadable, but clearly not happy. Bucky was...

Clint found he couldn’t look too long at Bucky’s face. It was furious, certainly, and perhaps disappointed, but more than that it was _haunted_ , looking backward to something far worse than Clint could imagine happening here.

He tried to think what they would be most worried about. “I was never spying on _you_ ,” he said. “I really was attacked by bandits—me coming here had nothing to do with Pierce.”

“I think the bandits may have been his men,” said Natasha. “Did you apprehend them?”

Bucky frowned, but at least he looked thoughtful now rather than ghastly. “No. There were definite signs that they _were_ there,” he added to Lady Grant. “Clint was attacked, and they ran off, and then we lost track of them. I thought that was odd.”

“Aye. So you may have drawn enemies onto my lands as well.”

“Not by choice,” Clint objected, because that was unfair. “And I wouldn’t have worked for him if I’d had a choice either.”

“He kept you loyal by threat?” asked Lady Grant. Natasha nodded.

“He found those we loved—Clint’s brother, and a dear friend of mine—and threatened their lives. Usually they knew nothing of it, but his reach was such that we had no doubt that he could do as he threatened did we not follow his orders. We were not the only ones he kept in his grasp that way.”

They did seem to believe it. Their faces were grim, but not sceptical. And they did seem to know something about Pierce already.

“How long?” Bucky’s voice was rough, rasping. His eyes were focused on Clint.

“Three years,” Clint said, and Nat nodded. “Why does it matter?” Something occurred to him. “It’s not well known that he’s that important,” Clint said, frowning, working it out. “He’s certainly not so famous that a messenger should come running from England to tell you he was dead. Why do you have men listening specifically for news of Alexander Pierce?”

Laird and Lady Grant and Bucky all looked at each other. Bucky nodded slightly.

“Five years ago,” said Laird Grant, “my best knight and truest friend was captured in battle. I made it known that I would ransom him, and heard nothing. For he was not held in honourable captivity, nor treated as a prisoner should be, but foully, cruelly tortured—” Laird Grant’s jaw clenched, and he recomposed himself. Bucky’s face seemed carved from stone. “—all with the intention of changing his allegiance, of turning him into Pierce’s dog, a spy who because of his history would never be suspected. He was held for a year before I rescued him.

“It comes as no surprise to me that Pierce kept unwilling men in his service with threats. But did you know aught of his experiments?”

“I knew he kept a torturer in his pay,” Clint said, thinking of Zola with a shudder. “But not more—he threatened my brother, I didn’t want to pry in case he took it badly—”

“I suspected,” Natasha said, rescuing Clint from having to speak further. “But I could do nothing about it until recently.”

Lady Grant looked startled, tapped her husband’s shoulder, and murmured something to him. He frowned, then nodded. They and Bucky had a mostly silent conversation, primarily with their eyebrows, but Clint couldn’t guess at the conclusions. He looked at Natasha, who was watching Lady Grant.

“Come, mistress,” her Ladyship said, and she swept out with Natasha in front of her.

Laird Grant and Bucky exchanged glances. Then they sat down and put Clint to the question.

They didn’t literally hold his feet to the fire, but that would not have been more effective than Bucky’s grimness and Laird Grant’s earnest disapproval. They asked him everything he’d done for Pierce, everything he’d noticed about him, everything about guests to Pierce’s castle and any prisoners he might have seen.

Most of it Clint was in fact happy to tell them. He’d been cast down from working for Pierce for years, and he’d wished for someone to hear his confession of his evils, and for something to be done about Pierce’s.

But he refused to tell them anything about the greater English plans. Most of it he didn’t know anyway, and when he said, “I cannot betray England, even after I have been so ill treated by its men,” they didn’t ask for more. Clint had no idea what they thought of him, though their opinions of Pierce were clear.

Halfway through Bucky left to check on her Ladyship, but that didn’t make Laird Grant any less intimidating. Clint found he _wanted_ to please him, wanted to impress him and show him it would be beneficial for Clint to stay—as if he cared.

He didn’t know if he did. After at least a couple hours of questions Laird Grant sighed and went to the door. He found a man to take Clint back to his borrowed chamber, without telling him anything more.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint hoped it was a good sign that he was kept in the room they had given him before, rather than a dungeon. He was, however, still locked in, and the window was too small to fit through. He was sure there was a guard on the door as well. So there was nothing to do but sit there, and hope that Natasha was faring better than he had, or at least would be imprisoned in the same room afterwards so he’d have someone to talk to, and plan with.

Why had Nat blown their cover at all? Clint wasn’t a fool. He knew Laird Grant was inclined to take in strangers, some much stranger than he. There were men from France and Spain and even a couple Moors in the castle, and a good few men from other, closer places. But that didn’t mean they’d welcome two English spies. They could have just left the next day, and gone off on their own, without putting their lives at risk by enraging their host.

Though their lives would have been at a lot of risk outside the castle as well, given that Natasha was entirely right that Pierce’s most loyal men would be looking for them. And Clint was starting to think that they had a duty, now that he and Natasha were free of Pierce, to turn the tables and hunt down those men, to protect the rest of Pierce’s victims and discourage others from taking his place. That wouldn’t be a particularly safe undertaking.

Not a well-paying one, either. Maybe Nat would be smart enough to talk him out of it.

And to find them a trade, or some damn mercenary jobs, or a nice rich traveller to rob, because they’d need it after Laird Grant tossed them out. Assuming he was kind enough not to just execute them.

Natasha arrived less than an hour after Clint. To Clint’s disappointment the guard taking her up didn’t bring any food with him. He hadn’t had much dinner before the messenger arrived.

“Hey,” Nat, said, smiling a little wearily. Clint just nodded back.

“I hope you haven’t been underestimating Lady Grant,” she said. “She knows what she’s doing.”

“What were you _thinking_?” Clint asked. She’d be pissed at him for calling her to task but—what had she been _thinking_?

Natasha sighed. “I know it seems stupid,” she said. “But I have had a home with you, these past few years. Not the best of them, under the circumstances, but I liked it. I have never had another stability that was not torn from me.” Nor had Clint, but he was grateful she didn’t spell that out. “I knew that I—we would lose that home, eventually. I hoped for a new one. A lasting one.”

“Why would you think this place could be that?”

“You’ve been in this castle for over a week, Clint. You know why. Laird Grant has Englishmen and Frenchmen and Irishmen and a Norseman here. Three of his people came to Edinburgh as slaves, and his agent there sent them on to him specifically. He takes in anyone he thinks needs it.”

“Doesn’t mean they’ll be happy with a couple of spies in their midst.”

“I thought I would risk it. It doesn’t change anything if I’m wrong, Clint—we’ll just go on our own as we would have anyway.”

“We may have to escape from Grant’s dungeons first.”

“If he has any,” Natasha scoffed. “I think we could manage that. But if I’m right, Clint—imagine if I’m right. Imagine having somewhere to live where you _want_ to live, and can forever. I think we could. I think we could be happy here.”

“Don’t know if I can see you settling down,” Clint said, to hide how tempting he found the idea. Before everything, but mostly before Pierce, _he_ ’d planned on settling down, trying out farming with Barney and putting his bow aside, except maybe for tourneys. Maybe it wouldn’t have worked out in the long run, but he’d have liked to have tried it.

“Well,” Natasha said. “It’s not entirely settling down. Right now I do need to go back to England to finish shutting down the Shield of the Realm. When your knee is better Laird Grant will likely want your help rooting them out of Scotland as well.”

“I’d go with you, if you could wait a damned week,” Clint snapped, stung. He was about to start yelling at her, and damn the guard outside, but she took his hand.

“I’d rather you were here for me to come back to,” she said, and ... she was being absolutely sincere. Fuck. Clint’s throat tried to close up.

“So long as you do come back,” he said. Fuck.

“I always have,” she said, which cut a little too close to the bone. But she quickly continued, “You won’t be living a quiet life here either. I know you.”

“But I’ll have to wear a plaid,” Clint whined, which wasn’t a real complaint.

*

The next morning Laird Grant delivered their breakfast himself. That already told Clint what their answer was likely to be, and he tried to look calm instead of shocked and grateful as Laird Grant set the tray down.

“I will grant you sanctuary and protection, and all the other duties of a laird, including maintenance in this castle, in exchange for your oath of fealty,” he said. “I will not ask you to break any personal vows, but I must have this guarantee if you are to stay here. If you are not married, then I will need oaths from both of you.”

“I will so swear,” Clint said, with less hesitation than he would have expected from himself. But he liked Laird Grant, much more than he’d thought he would.

“This oath...”

“My wife has told me what you told her,” Laird Grant assured Natasha. “I will ask of you service befitting your talents.”

“But I also have a duty to myself. I have shed too much blood in service to the Shield of the Realm. I wish to return to England and destroy what parts of Pierce’s organization I can find, to do penance for my part in it. I know where some of them are already.”

Laird Grant frowned. “I would entirely support that,” he said, “but I thought you wanted sanctuary for more than one week.”

“But I do. I hope I will not spend my life doing that; I want a place to come to afterwards.”

“Also, though I will not seek out war against all of England by myself, I will be sending my men to hunt down any further spies that remain in Scotland. I had hoped for your assistance.”

“Clint ought to stay here. Once he is fully healed he can aid you with with finding spies in Scotland. I work better alone, though I would be happy to have your backing.”

Laird Grant nodded slowly. “And you will pledge to me, and to return when you are able. Aye.” He smiled slightly. “I think I can accept that. Break your fast with me?”

Clint was starving, but he would have anyway.

*

Natasha planned to leave the next day, which pissed Clint off again, but Bucky cornered him and asked him for help planning how to go after Pierce’s men, which was a fine distraction.

They leaned over a table with a map between them. “Generally bandits hide in the hills to the north of us, here,” Bucky said, pointing, “so I thought we’d start there.”

“They won’t be there,” Clint said. “They won’t go to the north—they’re only interested in people who are a threat to England. They probably don’t know your territory, and if they do they’ll avoid anywhere your local bandits might be. Pierce only just started sending people this far north. They’ll know more of the area the further south you go. This is where they’ve been.” Clint started placing markers on the map.

“Would any of those lords know he’d been spying on them?”

“What I’m wondering is if these two—” Clint placed different coloured stones on a couple names “—are in league with him. Better ask Nat to look at this before she leaves, she might know. She did a lot more prying in his papers than I did.”

“That’s why she knows where to look for his men in England, then?”

“I guess. And which were truly loyal to him instead of forced to it.” There had been a lot of bad parts of working for the Shield of the Realm, but one of the worst had been not knowing that, never having anyone Clint was sure he could trust. Except for Nat.

“Aye.” Bucky bit his lip. “She said she’s not really your wife?”

“No,” Clint said, startled, “no, I’m not married. And she’s not my leman, either.”

“Hmm,” Bucky said, and—probably if that really was hope Clint saw in his expression, it was for Natasha, not—anything else. Probably.

*

“You know I’m not trying to leave you,” Natasha said the next morning.

Clint sighed. “Yeah.” If Natasha wanted to leave him he wouldn’t realize it until she’d been gone for a month. He still got headaches if he stayed awake too long, or went outside. He would slow them down travelling, and he probably wasn’t up to his usual fighting standards. And Nat needed to be fast, and not worrying over him. He just felt left out.

“They need you here,” she said, and Clint blinked.

“Only to hunt down Pierce’s men.”

“That’s very important to Laird Grant. And if you show them your true archery skills they’ll be more than happy to have you.”

“I guess.” Clint finished his porridge so he didn’t have to say anything else, but she was right. It was just odd to think about it, that he might have a place somewhere that he _wanted_. “We should go downstairs.”

“We should.” Natasha swung her bag over her shoulder, but even though he’d suggested it Clint stopped her at the door.

“Nat?”

Nat turned back to him, tensing up. “Yes?”

“Just one thing.” Clint couldn’t believe he was actually asking this, but he did need to know. “Tell me you didn’t kill Barney.”

Nat relaxed. “I didn’t,” she said, and then frowned and looked a little hurt. “I promise you that. Like I said, I’m sorry for your loss.”

“All right, then.” Clint put an arm around her shoulders. He didn’t ask about anyone else. “Have a safe trip.”

Nat hugged him quickly, then opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of the fic proper. The last chapter will be a couple of later (slashier) scenes from Bucky's PoV, and should be up by the end of the week.


	6. Envoi

Bucky expected Clint to be like most English archers: cocky as fuck because they could bend a longbow, but with no real accuracy. You didn’t need accuracy when there were five thousand of you shooting at twice that many cavalry. It was impressive, maybe, but no use if you were on your own, or on horseback. And when he’d seen Clint practise he hadn’t seen much to change that impression.

But now Clint was grinning like a loon, irrepressibly and contagiously, as Steve and Bucky followed him to the range. Bucky still wasn’t sure what he was so excited about showing them. Clint was fully recovered now, and training like any other warrior. Bucky generally avoided the range, when he wasn’t keeping an eye on strange southerners, but if Clint was that impressive the men would have talked about it.

Clint chose a bow from the weapons stores carefully, checking them over with a professional eye, and Bucky tried not to bristle at the hint that they might not be up to his standards. But Clint didn’t say anything, just went for the heaviest bow that would fit his draw length. They didn’t have much, for someone with his long arms.

Bucky was not thinking about his arms as they went into the range and Clint waved them away from the starts. It was twilight; the targets were in shadow and ... well, if Clint could shoot at all accurately in this light the cockiness might be a little justified.

“Go to the target,” Clint said, still grinning. “You’ll want a good view. No, wait, look first. They’re all your arrows, I haven’t done anything to them, right? Right. Go on.”

Steve raised his eyebrows slightly at Bucky as they walked to the targets; Bucky rolled his eyes a little and shrugged. They stood a few yards from Clint’s target. Bucky watched Clint carefully; it wasn’t that he really thought Clint would take this opportunity to assassinate them, but he wasn’t as ready as Steve to trust on an oath alone.

Clint drew and loosed, and the arrow landed squarely in the bullseye. Then he drew and loosed again, almost as quickly, certainly without any appearance of calculation, and—there were two arrows in the bullseye, the second splitting straight through the heart of the first.

Bucky stared.

It was something sung about in ballads, not something that actually happened—certainly not something anyone could do confidently, easily. Bucky couldn’t take his eyes from the two arrows piercing the painted canvas together, though as he stared his mind saw again how Clint had looked a week ago, his posture, his easy, graceful movements, when Bucky had stood behind him and watched him practise and tried to feel neither envy nor lust at the sight.

He’d been hiding his skill, then. This—this was—anyone would feel envy at this level of skill. Anyone would feel—

When Bucky could tear his eyes away from the arrows Clint was halfway down the lane, coming towards them, his grin now more than a little smug. Bucky wanted—When he was within earshot Steve said, “I had no doubts before about taking you into my service, but this goes beyond all expectation.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you as good with other weapons?”

“Any kind of bow—any that I’ve tried, which is most of them. Sling, spears, knives—you know how to throw knives? I could teach you,” he added to Bucky, casually. “Anything ranged, really. Crossbow, if there’s nothing else. Other than that, I can use a sword, knife fight, wrestle, that kind of thing. But archery is—” he waved a hand “—it’s, you know. My thing. My speciality.”

“So I see,” said Steve.

Bucky hoped he wasn’t staring at the man as obviously as he must have been at his arrows, but it seemed likely.

*

Bucky hadn’t been sure how the Howlers would take to Clint. The rest of the castle was ... variable, in their tolerance of him. But on the way out Clint had asked why they were called the Howlers, and Jim had grinned and begun a heavily embroidered version of the story, so by the first time they made camp Bucky was hopeful that it would work out. He really didn’t want to hunt spies with a team who didn’t trust each other.

On other hand, on the way back from England five years ago he’d had to hide in the back of a hay wagon with Sam for twelve hours. So no matter what happened it couldn’t be worse than that.

“Have we leave to shoot for our supper?” Clint asked.

“Oh aye, always.”

“Always?”

“Well, not in the spring. But until Lent, anyone can shoot as he pleases on Steve’s land.”

“Wow.” Clint blinked into the distance for a bit. “Nearly lost a hand for poaching once, when I was a kid. All right, then.”

So they had two rabbits and a pheasant roasted for dinner, along with some of the oats and turnips they’d brought.

Bucky had, perhaps, been watching Clint shoot a little too obviously. But he was still uncomfortable with the feeling over supper that Clint was watching _him_. He never quite caught him at it—Clint was fast, he’d give him that. At last he turned himself, and kept his eyes on Clint until Clint looked up and—didn’t immediately look away. Just gazed back steadily, and they were on the same side of the fire with no one in between them, and a thread of tension wound tighter and tighter between their eyes.

Until Clint casually turned away and said to Jacques, “ _Ce n’est pas parce que je suis anglais que je suis stupide_ ,” and the men laughed.

The men. Bucky hadn’t even heard whatever Jacques had said to provoke that. He couldn’t get this distracted when they were patrolling. And he definitely shouldn’t be getting distracted by _Clint_ in front of the Howlers—though admittedly they probably all already knew about Bucky.

Clint, though—he might have said Natasha wasn’t his mistress, but Bucky wasn’t sure that wasn’t just him trying to protect her good name. Natasha certainly loved Clint enough that a threat to him had kept her in line, and Bucky really didn’t want to get in her way. And even if they weren’t together that didn’t mean Clint would be interested in Bucky.

Bucky determinedly focused on the conversation again. There was no point in mooning after southern rogues.

But the next evening Clint cornered him by a small grove.

For possibly the first time that expedition Bucky wasn’t thinking about Clint at all. The next day they would arrive on Ross’s land, to see if they’d noticed spies and ask for permission to search. Steve got along well with the Rosses, but Bucky hadn’t seen them in more than seven years, since before his injuries. They knew, of course—everyone knew. Steve had spread the word as a warning not to trust the English.

Bucky was taking some time away from the rest of the Howlers to try and remember who he’d been seven years ago. He wasn’t sure if he could be his old, cheerful, charming self again for more than five minutes, but he wasn’t sure how to be his new self either.

God, he’d flirted with Isabel Ross when they were younger, more than a decade ago. She had three children now. Bucky felt old.

And then suddenly Clint was in front of him. Bucky hadn’t heard a god damned thing.

“Christ,” he said, stepping back and taking his hand from his knife. “Do that again and I’ll stab you.”

“If I tried it on purpose I’d probably put my foot in a badger hole,” Clint said, smiling wryly. “You busy?”

Obviously Bucky wasn’t, and he didn’t take the chance to escape. “No,” he said, wondering what Clint had sought him out for, maybe hoping a little.

Clint smiled and leaned against a tree. After a moment he said, “We get to Ross Castle tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah. We know them—they’ll help us out.”

“Tim said you were into Isabel Ross, once.”

Bucky wondered how long it would be before Clint realized that no one called Dum Dum Tim. “That was a long time ago,” he said. “She’s married now.” He found himself casting about for a different topic. “You step in a lot of badger holes?”

Clint grinned. “More than you’d think.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“I’ve been told I should know better by now,” Clint agreed. “But I’m thinking of trying another one.”

Bucky frowned, dubious. If Clint was going where he thought he might be, Bucky didn’t think he liked the metaphor. “Or not,” Clint said, turning away.

“Wait,” Bucky asked without thinking. “I just—ain’t sure I like the comparison.” Clint hadn’t sounded too disappointed, but when he turned again his smirk was back, which emphasized how abruptly it had disappeared before. “What did you want to say?”

“Well.” Clint seemed to search for something to do with his hands, then rubbed the back of his head. “Not really what I wanted to say so much as what I wanted to do. I know you don’t trust me—”

“I trust you enough to take your word in planning this excursion,” Bucky objected. Clint didn’t need to know that he’d looked for independent evidence as much as possible.

“Oh. Well. I mean. I guess.” Clint pulled himself back together, squared his shoulders. “Then,” he said, “I don’t need to wait before asking you to consider trusting me more.” He stepped forward and reached out to cup Bucky’s cheek. His fingers drew gently along the line of Bucky’s jaw. “I think you know what I mean.” Bucky’s lips parted as Clint’s thumb slid against them; something in his chest seemed to start smouldering. “But I’m not pushing,” Clint said. “I just thought I’d, you know. Make it clear that I was interested.” He started to pull his hand away.

If Clint was holding back because he’d heard about Bucky’s past, Bucky was putting a stop to that. He reached out, tangled his fingers in Clint’s short hair, and pulled him in for a kiss. He hadn’t intended it to go on for very long, but soon Clint was kissing him back, and then Bucky had no interest in stopping.

“So you’re interested too,” Clint breathed when they pulled apart.

“I could be persuaded,” Bucky said, trying to hide that he was panting for breath just as hard. “But ... you’re right about not tonight.”

“I usually have terrible timing, it’s fine,” Clint said. “When there’s less people around, then.”

“Or at least when we aren’t visiting major allies tomorrow,” Bucky agreed, voice dry but all the rest of him aware of the implications.


End file.
